The Problem
by wanderingtardisonbakerstreet
Summary: Sherlock has a problem. It's annoying and recurring, and John Watson is to blame with his inordinately protective deeds. Thank God for long coats. Johnlock. One shot. Rated M for some sexy times.


******Two things:  
a) This story is not betaed, so bear with me here.  
b) I'm from the US, so please excuse any inconsistencies with British vs American word usage.**

**My friend wanted a shower fic. This is what my fingers threw up. (Sorry for that horrible mental image.)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything. That honor goes to Sir ACD and Moftiss.**

* * *

This was unacceptable.

Completely, irrefutably, _unacceptable._

Sherlock looks down again, just in case the problem has miraculously made itself scarce.

It hasn't.

The detective had been actively trying to avoid his flatmate for the past week. _The Problem_ had started seven days before when John jumped on him to help block Sherlock from falling debris from an earth-shattering bomb. Nothing had ended up raining down on them, but the doctor had refused to move away until he was _completely sure_ the consulting detective hadn't suffered from any injuries. By the time he was "completely sure" nothing was wrong with his friend, Sherlock was burdened with the first appearance of the Problem. Thank God for long coats.

Back in the present, Sherlock paces back and forth across the cold floor of their flat. He'd been _just fine_ all day until the damn idiot decided to take a shower and start _singing._ If there's anything to say about Doctor John Watson, it's that he has the incredibly unexpected talent of connecting notes and sounds together in a form that is not only pleasant, but _arousing._

Sherlock harrumphs and begins stalking to the offending room where the provocative singing is spilling out along with the steam. It was the wanker's fault for bringing the Problem out to play in the first place, and Sherlock was going to make sure he fixed it if it was the last thing he did.

(The detective went over the last sentence in his head and decided, quite profoundly, that John's contributions to his vocabulary were significantly lacking. The statement was also dramatic with a flair Mycroft would have appreciated. Conclusion: a regretful excuse for a sentence.)

Without announcement or ceremony, Sherlock shoves open the door and then pulls back the shower curtain. "For the love of all that is living, could you please _stop making that noise!"_

Startled and self-conscious, John stands with the water running over him, mouth still poised to release the notes coming from his throat—_god_ that _throat_—and wonderfully naked.

Sherlock rips off his robe, revealing his pyjama bottoms that are now uncomfortably tented. "Do you _see _this? _Do you see what you've done to me?"_

John's eyes flicker down but he is otherwise statue-like.

Sherlock begins ripping off clothes before the poor doctor can even begin to process what's going on.

"You started this and you are _damn well_ going to finish it." The detective is now standing in the shower, just as unashamedly nude as the other man.

John seems to regain some use of his vocal cords. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" It comes out with much less force than intentioned.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm naked, standing next to you in a shower, with an erection of monumental standards. What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

John stares up at him, trying to hide his own reaction to all this..._excitement_, but really, what's he supposed to do? He's stark naked. "God, you're an arrogant sod, aren't you?"

Sherlock lets out an exasperated breath. "Do I have to do _everything?"_

John thinks his eyes are about to come out of his head as there's suddenly a very firm grip around a certain part of his anatomy. Slamming a hand against the wall of the shower and trying desperately to avoid collapsing on the floor, he grips the wrist above the assaulting hand. "_Fuck_." Not exactly what he meant to say, but he was busy biting back a combination of vulgarity and animalistic noises that were suddenly attempting to forcibly shove their way out of his mouth. "_Jesus_, Sherlock, how is this my—" He cuts himself off with a strange groan. "_Howisthismyfault?_" he finally spits out.

So far, the only connection between the two are where Sherlock's hand is touching and John is gripping Sherlock's wrist. "You, with your fucking inordinately protective deeds and singing in the bloody damn shower. What did you expect?"

There's more curse words in that sentence than John has ever heard Sherlock speak at once, and he wonders distantly if a filter has been shut off somewhere.

Deep in his_ overly stimulated_ mind, he decides that if he's getting off at the hand of his flatmate, he might as well return the favor.

John appears much more accomplished in this area and soon has Sherlock reduced to a mound of groaning, clutching flesh, John's poor self sorely abandoned. That's when the detective finally seeks out John's mouth, and then they're kissing.

Teeth, tongues, lips, saliva.

Sherlock's limbs seem to be everywhere and John has to constantly remind himself that they're in a _shower_ and any uncoordinated movements will send them both slipping and sliding to the end of...whatever _this_ is.

Sherlock has somehow contorted his body so he has one foot firmly on the floor with the other leg slung precariously around the shorter man's hip. He's shivering and shuddering and it's all John can do not to purposefully slam Sherlock onto the slippery shower floor and take this to a completely different level.

"JohnJohnJohnJohn."

The doctor's not sure if Sherlock is even aware of the words coming from his mouth. Apparently, it had been some kind of warning. A whimper and a cry later, John finds himself with an armful of a boneless Sherlock Holmes, and the detective's reaction is enough to send John over the edge as well.

Supporting Sherlock with one arm, John gently cleans them both before turning off the faucet and grabbing a couple of towels. He takes great pleasure in ruffling Sherlock's headful of curls until the dripping water is soaked into the cloth. That _hair._ It's utterly glorious.

John hands Sherlock the towel and the detective wraps himself the way a child would, not really doing anything to cover more...sensitive...areas, but keeping his shoulders and back warm.

"Are you cold?" John asks.

Sherlock, still in a post-coital haze, nods sleepily.

With a smile, John takes his hand. "Come on, then."

* * *

**I have absolutely no idea where the John-singing-in-the-shower idea came from. I actually don't imagine his character being able to sing at all. XD  
****Benedict, however...**

**-C**


End file.
